


Baisers

by Jaydee_Faire



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Angst, Gen, I mean I guess it could be if you wanted it to be I'm not stopping you, Kissing, M/M, More angst, Not an incest fic, Platonic Kissing, Platonic Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-29
Updated: 2016-09-29
Packaged: 2018-08-18 11:56:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8161283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaydee_Faire/pseuds/Jaydee_Faire
Summary: Auguste kissed his brother first thing each morning, and last thing each night.





	

_"The way Laurent kissed was nothing like the way he did anything else. It was simple and without artifice, as if kissing were serious..."_

Auguste kissed his brother first thing each morning, and last thing each night.

He'd been doing so ever since Laurent was old enough to move from his bassinet into a crib; a heavy, heirloom piece carved from dark wood that was much too big for Auguste's squirmy pink baby brother. Auguste would stand on a box, lean as far over as he could, and touch his lips to the fat rosy cheek. The next morning he would come again, before even the wet nurse had woken, and kiss Laurent good morning. He'd linger there a while until he was called off to his lessons, or until he was shooed away by a gaggle of lady servants who assured him that caring for babies wasn't something a young prince should concern himself with.

When Auguste was thirteen he would creep into Laurent's nursery, tugging down a blanket knitted from the softest wool coin would buy so he could place a kiss among bright blond curls. Two years had taught him the way to Laurent's rooms by heart, even in the dark, even past chuckling guards who pretended they couldn't see him. In the mornings, he'd sneak in bread and cheese and fresh milk and sit in Laurent's windowsill to eat breakfast while the sun rose. Laurent found he liked bread with butter and preserves, and he preferred to drink out of Auguste's cup even though he had his own.

At fifteen, Auguste was a man, or nearly so, at least by his own estimation. He'd brought his sword into the nursery, laying it across Laurent's bed and swearing to protect his little brother, his blood, his family. Laurent had shied away from the blade and Auguste had hurried to sheathe it before kissing frightened tears from his brother's cheeks. He'd promised, then, that as long as he lived, Laurent would have nothing to fear from anyone or anything. 

Auguste was twenty, leaning down to smooth Laurent's hair back and kiss him on both cheeks when the boy had blurted, "I don't want to get married," and then, when Auguste had laughed that it was too early to think of that, Laurent had gone on earnestly, "I don't want you to get married, either. It isn't fair that some stupid woman can come and take you away. What if she's mean? What if she says she hates me and sends me away like in the stories? What if she sends a hunter to come and take out my heart and put it in a box--" and Auguste had hushed him, held him close, kissed the top of his head. "Promise you won't let anything come between us," Laurent had begged. "Promise you won't let anyone take you away from me." And so Auguste had.

Twelve was old enough for Auguste to knock on Laurent's door before coming in. He'd found Laurent sitting at the head of the bed, knees drawn up to his chest, eyebrows furrowed. "I don't think I like girls," Laurent had said, and then, more quietly, "I don't think I like anyone." Auguste had teased, don't you like me? and had been startled by Laurent's eyes, huge and full of tears. He hadn't understood, couldn't even get Laurent to tell him what was wrong, and for the first time began to fear that there would be things he wouldn't be able to protect his brother from. Laurent had fallen asleep, curled tightly into himself. Auguste kissed his temple, tucked the blankets around him, and sat beside him on the bed long past midnight.

Nearly fourteen, and Laurent suddenly realized that he'd been waiting for Auguste, listening for his knock on the door. A sick, heavy emptiness filled him, and he'd let out a long breath that for one miserable moment he'd wished would be his last. No bread and preserves in the morning; no fresh milk out of a cup still warm from Auguste's hands. No long conversations at night, nor laying half-asleep with his cheek pressed against Auguste's shoulder. He abruptly missed every kiss, tried to recall all of them, commit them to memory before they, too, were taken from him. Those places on his cheeks, his temples, his forehead where Auguste's lips had touched were sacred now, precious spaces where he must never allow anyone else to defile. 

Slowly, he felt his brother's warmth cooling and fading, hardening into an impenetrable layer of ice.

**Author's Note:**

> I literally just felt like writing something fluffy but also unbearably sad. You're wELCOME


End file.
